


Luck Is for Fury, Courage for Fools

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Felix Felicis, Hand Jobs, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 11:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13950276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: Draco thinks he’s getting lucky. Harry has news for him.





	Luck Is for Fury, Courage for Fools

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Firewhiskeyfic's March "Can You Believe Our Luck?' edition and the prompts: _Seamus Finnigan, The Three Broomsticks, Felix Felicis, and "Can you believe our luck?"_ I was pretty darn tipsy when I wrote this, but there weren't that many typos, so I cleaned it up, and this is the cleaned-up version here. Also, that title is ridiculous. LOL.

It started after Ron snorted and – laughing, a little too drunk already – said, "Get a load of Seamus!"

And to be fair, Seamus Finnigan had commandeered a table at The Three Broomsticks (a tough maneuver at ten p.m. on a busy Saturday night) and was now dancing on top of it – some lewd-hilarious thing involving sliding a napkin, hopefully clean, between his legs and seeming quite aroused by it. 

Well, Harry thought, if it had been clean before, surely it wasn’t anymore.

That was precisely his thought before a hand slipped onto his thigh beneath the table. He was too shocked – and a wee bit tipsy – at first to register who the hand was attached to, and for a brief moment just sat there, wide-eyed, while graceful fingers squeezed above his knee and then stroked a bit higher.

Harry turned his head, saw that Malfoy was sitting next to him – himself watching Seamus’s table dance – and simply blinked. Surely, thought Harry, it was someone else. Though to the right of him was Ron, whose two hands were clapping as he laughed at Seamus’s continued antics. It could be a disembodied hand, he thought. He was a wizard who lived in a magical world of ghosts, ghouls (please no not that), and all manner of strange occurrences. But one look down at it cemented it as Draco Malfoy’s hand: pale, but not ghostly so, and definitely attached to an arm that was Draco Malfoy’s, being that it was clad in expensive, black silk-wool blend.

Harry looked at Malfoy next to him once more, even as the hand gave his thigh an affectionate rub and – Harry gulped – drifted higher.

"He’s rather good," Malfoy said to Harry suddenly, and without, at first, turning his attention away from the spectacle that was Seamus Finnigan swivelling his hips, "if one isn’t accounting for taste or any actual talent."

And now Malfoy did turn his gaze toward Harry, his face – pretty though it was – entirely too close. 

"Don’t you think, Potter?" His hand trailed up, fingers mapping Harry’s inseam.

"Nnggghyes," said Harry thoughtfully.

"Mm," Malfoy answered. "Weasley certainly seems captivated by it."

After which, Ron spat his beer out he laughed so hard.

Harry looked around the table, trying to discern if anyone else had noticed Malfoy’s hand straying up his leg under the table. Oddly, they had not. Though it was, predictably, all Harry himself could think about.

He was about to ask Malfoy if _he_ knew he’d begun caressing Harry’s leg or if perhaps he’d mean to be caressing an entirely different leg, when Malfoy’s hand stroked up even higher, cupped Harry’s half-hard cock inside his trousers, and gave a long… massaging… _squeeeeeeeeeze_ that took Harry’s breath.

Stars exploded behind Harry’s eyes. His lungs definitely weren’t getting enough oxygen. And his traitor cock sprang fully erect into Malfoy’s rubbing palm – all before Harry could exhale. And when he _did_ exhale, he made a noise… a noise that sounded way too much like the word ‘please’. Just without any vowels maybe.

Malfoy breathed steadily beside him. A little _too_ steadily, Harry realised. It was measured. Calculated even. Not natural. And his cheeks were a becoming rose, stained not by consumption of alcohol as his glass remained unfilled and had only contained pumpkin juice in the first place. No, his cheeks were pink from… what he was doing. And what he was doing was bringing Harry off – slowly, sweetly, so warm and lovely – in his pants.

"Hhh," Harry breathed. He opened his legs. Malfoy’s hand moved faster – less finesse, more effort. In fact, Harry could make out the movement of his arm even _above_ the bloody table.

But then…

"Dra… co…" Harry gasped. And then hot ribbons of come spurted from his cock, into Malfoy’s stroking fingers, wetting the front of his jeans obscenely. Harry squeezed his eyes closed, moving his hips in tiny thrusts into Malfoy’s hand. And Malfoy’s hand… Merlin, it stroked him through it, up and down the twitching shaft, his thumb making circles under the crown of Harry’s cock as it jerked and spat more warm ejaculate.

Malfoy made a sound then… A pleased sound, like a long hum. Harry looked at him, and on his face sat a satisfied smile, at once triumphant and sweet. His eyes twinkled. He bit his lower lip for a scant second. And then his hand was gone, and he pushed his chair back from the table. 

"Goodnight, all," he said, smiling a normal smile all around at the group. "Eighth year Quidditch practice tomorrow," he reminded everyone. "Don’t get so trashed you can’t fly." 

Then he turned, looked Harry square the face, and winked.

He walked out, his slim, posh hips swinging a bit. Not a lot. But a bit. Enough that Harry felt himself ogling after him rather desperately.

"Mate," said Ron. "Have you had too much red currant rum to walk back to the castle? You’re tilting."

Harry straightened himself. He cleared his throat. Surreptitiously, under the table, he touched his wand and cast a cleaning charm on himself and then his trousers. "No, I’m – I’m f-fine."

And he was. Except for the shock. He was so, so very fine.

~

Nothing happened again for two weeks. Not until they were back at the Three Broomsticks. Malfoy was there, as Harry couldn’t help but notice. Hell, he couldn’t _not_ notice Malfoy wherever he went nowadays. Malfoy was everywhere. And when he wasn’t _actually_ there, then he was in Harry’s head. All the bloody time. 

He’d wanked to the memory more than once. More than three times. Okay, he’d practically wanked his dick off every chance he got, if he was honest.

But Malfoy had pretty much ignored him. Except for a couple little smiles here and there – which Harry almost couldn’t believe were directed at him. Except that they were. Or seemed to be.

The chances seemed likely – especially now that he was in a bathroom stall at the pub with Malfoy on his knees in front of him, unzipping his jeans.

"I don’t," Harry said in a daze, "under… st–ohhhh."

Malfoy had taken Harry’s naked prick into his fist, and now he blinked up at Harry from his kneeling position on the floor of the stall. "Shut up, Potter, and let me suck you off."

"Oh fucking ggggggssshh!"

Malfoy enveloped Harry’s cock between his lips, in the incredible suckling heat of his phenomenal mouth, and he gently bobbed back and forth, taking Harry a little deeper, only to tease the glans with a quick and talented tongue in the next moment.

"Why?" Harry breathed – really, _really_ stupidly.

Malfoy let out a little laugh around his dick, flicked amused but friendly eyes up to Harry’s probably-aghast-but-also-horny face, and then angled his head and took Harry’s cock all the way down, into his tight tight throat.

"Oh _god_ Draco," Harry sighed. Both of his hands went into Malfoy’s pretty hair, mussing it badly. Or perfectly. God it was perfect. He was perfect. He swallowed and slurped around Harry’s cock and he _moaned_... bloody moaned while he did it. Harry’s hands tightened in his hair, and his hips rolled lazily. As lazy as his hard and leaking prick was not. And before he knew it...

"Oh Christ I’m gonna come. Gonna come, Malfoy," he whispered.

Malfoy jerked him off, his hand a fast wick of a blur on the shaft, even as he hollowed his cheeks around the head, licking under the crown. Wanting it.

Hell, he wanted it.

Harry thunked his head back against the wall of the stall and blasted his orgasm between Malfoy’s swollen lips, over his tongue, into his mouth – and he rode Draco’s pretty damned face until he was empty and sagging and so happy he could cry.

"Merlin, that was…" he panted.

But Malfoy was up, wiping his mouth, giving Harry a fleeting and sort of unreal peck on his cheek. "See you, Potter."

He was out the door as fast as Apparating, and even though Harry called after him, "Draco, wait!" he was gone, his fast steps taking him out the door with a finality Harry could scarcely process.

 

Harry sat at the bar afterward. He stared into a half-empty tumbler and blinked, trying to work out just exactly what the fuck had happened, was happening. Because apparently, he and Draco were fucking? Sort of? They were… doing stuff, at least. But maybe only at The Three Broomsticks? Harry wasn’t entirely sure. He wasn’t at all sure actually. Harry would attempt to ask Draco what was going on, but, as he’d expected, Draco had buggered off and was gone by the time Harry had got himself cleaned up and removed from the loo.

"Budge up, Potter," came Pansy’s voice to his right.

Harry begrudgingly moved his elbow out of her way.

"Three whiskey sours and a Flaming Firebolt," she ordered and then sighed as she leaned against the bar, waiting. "What’s with you?" 

"I… don’t entirely know," he confessed.

She gave a soft snort.

Harry frowned at her. "What?"

"Hmm?" she asked. "Oh nothing."

"No, it’s not nothing. You… Do you… know?"

She lifted her eyebrows at him. "Know what?"

Harry blanched. Because as Slytherin as she was, the lie only stretched so far, not quite making it to her mirthful eyes.

"Oh bloody hell," he breathed.

"Okay, yeah, I know," Pansy told him. She nudged him in the arm. "But don’t worry. I don’t think anyone else does."

"So it’s a secret?" he asked.

She scoffed at him. "Isn’t it?"

"I don’t have any bloody clue! I don’t even know…" He let out all his breath. "Does he _like_ me?"

"You’re joking. Right?"

"What?"

"Because, Potter, anyone with eyes knows he likes you."

"They do?"

"Has he not told you?"

"Told me what?"

"Oh for Salazar’s sake," she sighed.

"What?"

She took a deep breath and seemed to weigh whether or not she wanted to disclose her information. Of _course_ she had information. She was Pansy Parkinson: Slytherin, gossip, future columnist of a questionable paper.

"Pansy," Harry said, turning to her. "What is it? What’s going on?"

Her drinks were set in front of her, and she waved her wand, sending all but one of the whiskey sours floating back to her table and what friends were left at this time of night. "Okay, I’ll tell you," she said, a wicked little glint in her eye. "He’ll kill me, though. So I need your assurance that you won’t take the piss with him."

"Uh, okay?"

"Okay, good. So, here’s the thing." She looked positively gleeful as she then laid it out for him, "Draco _may_ be suffering under the delusion that Granger has been brewing Felix Felicis for you and Weasley."

"Why?" Harry blurted.

"Oh, you for your crap ability with potions and Weasley so that he’s better at Quidditch."

"But I’m not entirely crap at–"

"Potter, that’s beside the point. Do you want me to continue?"

Harry sat up straighter, pushing what was left of his drink away from himself. "Yeah, please. Go on."

"So," she said, leaning into him like a confidante. Harry got the feeling she’d been dying to tell someone. "I may have led our dear Draco to believe that I’d nicked a bit of Granger’s potion and sort of…" She gestured with red-nailed fingers, "reverse-engineered it, as the Muggles might say, to produce a few batches of my own." She waggled her sauced brows at him.

"So you… made Malfoy think you had Felix Felicis…"

"And then gave him some, yes."

"So, he thinks…"

"... he’s very lucky." She beamed.

"And so what he’s chosen to do with his luck is…"

"Get it on with you." Pansy nodded enthusiastically. "Isn’t he precious?"

"I–" Harry began. "Oh my god."

"It’s good for you too, right?" Pansy laid a concerned hand on his lower arm. Like a friend. He stared at it, blinking in a weird state of semi-shock. "I mean, Lovegood said you’re pretty hot for him, so–"

"Lovegood, er," he shook himself, "Luna said what now?"

"That’s you’ve had a crush on Draco since third year."

" _Third_ –" Harry cut himself off. It hardly mattered after all. "So, wait, Draco’s coming on to me because he thinks he’s on Felicis? What _is_ he on?"

Pansy shrugged blandly. "Apple juice with a little glitter glamour cast on it."

Harry goggled at her. "You’re joking."

"No, it’s pretty tasty. Would you like some?" Pansy began to dig through her purse, and Harry stopped her.

"That won’t be necessary."

"Potter," she said. "Are you alright? He did it because he thought he _could_ , you know? Like… he would have tried sooner, but…" She shrugged. "He didn’t think he had a chance."

Harry swallowed, looking into her concerned eyes, the shadow deep and smoky around them.

"But I guess he did," she said, "didn’t he?"

Harry took a breath. "Pansy?"

"Yes?"

"Where exactly is that arsehole now?"

She smiled.

~

"Hey," Harry said from the doorway to the boys’ eighth year Slytherin dorms.

Malfoy startled from where he sat reading _Runes, Runes, Runes: a Rocky Road_ in his bed. His glasses – he was wearing bloody _glasses_ – slipped down his nose, and once he registered that it was Harry standing there in his bedroom doorway, he ripped them off in a hurry, tossing them violently aside.

Harry snorted. Because what was he going to do? Make fun of him? Harry pushed his own glasses up his face further. "May I come in?"

"How the fuck did you get in here, Potter?" Malfoy fumed, drawing pyjama’d legs up toward his chest protectively.

Harry shrugged, stepping into the room despite Malfoy’s lack of invitation. He figured a blow job in the bathroom indicated _some_ desire for a new level of intimacy at least. "I had a little help from a friend."

Malfoy frowned. "Yours or mine?"

Harry smiled. "Both maybe."

"Well…" Malfoy said, the fire leaving his voice, his arms loosening from about his legs. "What are you doing here?"

Harry walked slowly across the room, thankful the other beds were empty, all their occupants either still at the Broomsticks or witnessed in the common room on his way in. (And yes, there were some looks, for sure. Though Zabini had just grinned like he had money riding on this very outcome.)

Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying for nonchalant, though his heart pounded erratically, hopefully, inside his chest. "I heard you had a store of Felix."

Malfoy’s features hardened, throwing his haughty cheekbones into even starker relief. "Here to score, are you, Potter? I’m afraid my cache is low. You’re out of luck."

Harry smiled, feeling its incandescent asymmetry on his face. "Oh, I don’t think that’s true."

He’d neared now, and he stopped just short of Malfoy’s narrow twin bed. He looked so proper and decent there in his green silk pyjamas. Though the top was unbuttoned enough that his collar bones were bare, the beating of his heart underneath his skin undisguised. Harry felt a thrill, watching the fast pulsebeat at the base of his milky throat. He summoned his courage, realising it was Malfoy himself who had sneaked his hand onto Harry’s thigh beneath that table… who had rubbed him off there for anyone to see… and then who had found him in that bathroom and pushed him against the stall wall, slipping fatefully to his knees.

Harry remembered how it had felt to actually be high on the potion… to feel his every move was fated, blessed. 

He reached out and trailed his fingers along the covers of Draco’s bed. "It’s worn off by now, hasn’t it?" Bravely, he met Malfoy’s eyes, the colour he found there shifting from a chaotic storm-grey to a brighter almost-blue.

Malfoy gave him that aristocratic eyebrow. "Has it?"

Harry marvelled that he wasn’t denying it. This Draco – post-war, coming back to the very school where he’d turned traitor, where’d he’d been enveloped in shame – was a different Draco. This was someone willing to risk himself.

"Yeah," Harry said, letting his smile turn kind, reassuring. "It has."

Draco let his legs slip from the cage of his arms entirely. He sat there vulnerable, with bated breath, waiting for Harry’s next move.

Harry braced a hand on the bed, ignoring the racing of his blood through his ears, and he leaned down, lips a breath from Malfoy’s. "And whatta you know, Draco," he said softly – before Malfoy’s sip of a gasp… before his own lips touched down.

Their lips met, and in the next breath of a moment, Draco melted against him, whimpering an open-mouthed kiss against Harry’s lips.

Harry couldn’t believe his luck.


End file.
